


Spitfire

by stormcity (orphan_account)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Insecurity, Love at First Sight, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Sexual Tension, Shyness, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 23:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13511613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stormcity
Summary: He thought you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.You had ended up fainting on him, a fate that was his doing to begin with.





	1. Prologue

"Blasted fuckin' thing," Jamison growled, thumping the static box with his foot.

His lip was trembling.

The Grand Prix final had started--you were up next on the ice. But the crappy signal was guaranteeing that he wouldn't see your angelic entrance onto the rink.

Tight and curvy in your royal blue attire--wavy (h/c) locks spun up for the occasion. The cracked-tv kept pixelating and the audio continued to crackle.

Junkrat felt nauseous.

Pining for you, a girl several years his junior--dwelling half a world away in the posh, upper-class cities of Great Britain. He'd been following your skating career since you were fourteen; a fateful evening that handful of years ago was all it took for him to be completely undone by a frightened nymphet.

* * *

It was actually he who was frightened. Your hair tickled his skin, florid pink lips gently touching his cheek. 

You'd fainted on him. 

But five minutes ago you'd been determined. This was your doing.

The building was on fire, the result of another junker attack. But that building was your prep school, your second home. 

The people they'd injured were your friends—no, family. 

You had heaved yourself to safety in the frame of a window. Just below you was the entrance, just below you, they were escaping down the stretch of sidewalk and back to their escape vehicle.

He was laughing and giggling, and completely hysterical. The other silent and nonchalant. You weren't going to let them get away with it. 

So you did the unthinkable. You threw yourself out the window, shrieking as you lunged for the lanky one's backside. 

It was successful. You had struck the 6'5 cretin down to the ground with the momentum of your 14-year old schoolgirl body, but unfortunately knocking yourself out in the process. 

Jamison just lay there in the middle of the walkway, listening as the sirens of law enforcement drew nearer—how the dull roar of a news helicopter was on its way. 

But he didn't care. You smelled like flowers. Your hair was ridiculously soft against his bony cheek; your skin was smooth and warm.

"Hurry up you numbskull."

Roadhog's titanus form appeared  
over him. His voice was out of character for his usual, hushed-up demeanor, but it was only because a whole infantry of officers was no doubt arriving briskly to the scene. All while the one who instigated the stealing of the school's golden trophies and medals just lay idly in the walkway—with you, one of the victims nuzzled in his arms.

Jamison kept gazing skyward as if he'd been struck in the chest cavity with a poisonous arrow instead of an enraged school kid.

He tried to sit up with you, finding one hand accidentally up the warmth of your skirt. His chest tightened. 

You were a mess in his arms--from ripped white, thigh-high socks to tangled (h/c) locks and partially singed button-up.

He lay you aside. Gently. Hesitantly.

Roadhog smacked a hand against the back of his head. Junkrat was slowly coming to his senses, attention leaving your still form.

He rubbed where Roadhog had thumped him but remained unresponsive.

Were you okay? 

Roadhog intervened, scooping Junkrat up and tucking him under one arm like a rebellious folding chair.

"Come on." He rumbled, satchel of prep school winnings clanking against his waist.

You abruptly came to and hastily latched ahold the lanky one's arm. Dazed hazel orbs stared back at you, petrified.

"Stop!"

Your nails clung to his skin. Roadhog yanked him away from you, harder. You broke one of your nails and drew some blood, watching it run down his arm.

"Stop!" Your voice cracked.

Tears started to stream down your cheeks.

Junkrat watched as the distance between you both lengthened. He could still see you, even after Mako dumped him back in the sidecar.

Hastily they began to speed off, the smell of burnt rubber and asphalt following them. 

What he remembered that night wasn't the fires leaping through the window's of King Row's most prestigious prep school, nor the hoards of law enforcement they had to deal with on their escape route.

He remembered you, the weeping school girl. And the memory always terrified him.

It terrified him because he thought love, at first sight, was a fairytale for cucks.


	2. You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His surname reminded you of the villains from mid-nineteenth century British classic novels. Fawkes sounded like it undeniably belonged to someone tall, mangy and horrible.

You sat in the headmaster's office with your backpack and jacket. He wanted to see you a few moments after school let out. Urgently.

Your cheeks are flushed with anxiety.

Bexly slid off his specs. The warm brown eyes that greeted you on the first day of freshman year were hooded by some shroud.

A shroud of sadness.

It was the kind of look a parent lowers onto their child when they must explain the cancellation of a trip to Disney World or the death of a pet.

He smiles, or at least tries.

"I'm glad this is your last year."

His voice is huskier than usual. It seems he's having a hard time even with talking.

Was he about to cry?

The headmaster takes a breath and sits back further into his armchair, wrinkled hands smoothing across the bills on the desk—sheets, and sheets of them.

"You've blossomed here. Carrying our school's and Britain's good name all the way up the Olympics."

You grinned bashfully. Your time there two years ago as a mere sixteen-year-old in a big, vast world of winter sports was a blur.

"I only won silver," You said, features softening immediately. He was crying now.

"What's wrong?"

Bexly takes a deep breath.

"The government," he sniffles.

"It hasn't been stable with all that's been going on. Terrorist attacks, Omnic rebellions,"

His hand clasps exhaustedly to his forehead, eyes shutting heavily. You could personally relate.

With Britain's security always teetering on the brink of disaster, you had stopped competitive skating altogether.

Your summers for the past few years have been sweltering and exhausting—like military training was supposed to be. As soon as you graduated high school next week, it was off to the academy.

You were enlisting in the Royal Air Force, having to retire from figure skating as soon as you were beginning.

But that was the world you currently lived in. Tough shit.

"Our endowment is vaporizing. We're falling under. Rapidly."

He takes a moment, shuffling through the papers of notices and bills just to show you the extent of the problem.

"Ever since our school was attacked those four years ago, enrollment has steadily declined as well,"

You swallow the lump in your throat.

"Next year we won't exist."

~~

  
Your parents were going through a divorce.

It caused your father to morph into a tireless being, fed only by the grueling hours that seized support from his fellow political party--adding to his climb toward prime minister.

It was only when you had a skating event that your mother returned from her banishment—flying in from Milan, Paris and up from Monte Carlo.

With nigh absent parents, both undone by an 11-year affair with another person, finding a home was difficult.

A luxurious house all to yourself, a Mercedes and a glimmering passport weren't worth nearly a fraction of what your schoolmates had.

Their parents actually picked them up from school.

Sure, they lived in a simple townhouse but in those townhouses kindled the warmth of rambunctious siblings, home-cooked meals and parents who always retired to bed after a long day—together.

You scrapped together what little you could. The title of student body president, stellar grades and passionate extracurriculars that'd otherwise be empty without the few friends you had to share them with.

But there was one thing you hadn't figured out. Perhaps you didn't have the time—that'd be a reasonable hindrance, right? There weren't many intervals between being a top tier student and world-class figure skater.

The thing that you always pondered, whilst taking the train back home each day, was romance.

You had gal friends, even a best friend named Adaline. Her red hair flashed to the forefront of your mind; her red lipstick too that'd stain the cheek of a new beau each month.

You had guy friends. Pierre? The male skater from your school who qualified for the Olympics with you?

He was there with you after school, partaking in those same grueling  
hours on the ice—perfecting dance routines. He'd buy you a coffee after walking out the ballet studio and into late autumn afternoons.

And yet, Pierre had strut right past you in the halls that one day, glossy black hair bouncing atop his head as he did so. During that homecoming week, he asked someone else out.

Not that you liked him, but really?

"Oh (Y/N)," Adaline'd breathe during lunch hour, slipping beside you on a bench in the school courtyard.

"Royce said you're 1,000 out of 10,"

She'd nudge you and wink.

During Calculus it'd take the form of a note. Adaline sometimes flickered her tongue your way and the eyes of one of the jocks would hurriedly leap off of you.

"Sterling told me it drives him insane when you wear pantyhose with your skirt." The note from her claimed.

"I think that girl has a crush on you," Adaline said once, passing you by the lockers.

You had looked around, finding the short pony-tailed brunette  
nailing you bashfully.

And yet, you were still single. No one has ever approached you directly.

Was it because you strangled trouble-making boys in the hallways about every day? Was it because of that time you unintentionally beat up the guy's soccer team when they were looking for an extra player?

You're just athletic is all, and completely independent. So what if you stared blankly at any flirt directed your way. You were just extremely focused and admittedly dry-humored.

You roll your eyes and turn up the music in your car, idly chewing your lip. The traffic through King's Row in the late afternoon was something you'd become used to.

Your lips curve upward in a knowing smile.

Alright. You'll admit it.

Boys were intimidated by you—Okay, maybe even a bit scared.

You sigh through your lips.

"Terrified. Okay? They're kinda terrified." You murmur. 

"Junkers, Mako Rutledge, and Jamison Fawkes spotted vandalizing and obliterating property near the Forbidden City in Beijing, China," reported the news that sounded from your phone lying in the empty passenger seat.

A chill shot up your spine. A sickening one.

Jamison Fawkes. His surname reminded you of a villain's in those mid-nineteenth century British classic novels.

The sound of Fawkes just made you anxious. Fawkes sounded like it absolutely belonged to someone tall, mangy and horrible.

That wicked grin would often ripple across your tablet screen in the evening news report—Singed hair, dirty face, sharp goblin teeth, crazed mischievous hazel eyes.

The boys at school thought you were something of a goddess, some angelic, discerning offspring of Athena and Ares; the goddess of wisdom and the god of war.

You were intelligent, ambitious, and completely fearless, as read your senior eulogy.

But your shoulders hunched at the last word the school newspaper club had written about you.

You were not completely fearless. Images from that night commonly erupted back into your conscience.

The comparison came back. You were a goddess, living a quiet, virtuous existence within the clouds—then some demon emerges from the depths of hell and sets the skies afire—some demon so far removed from your existence that he can't help but terrify you.

Jamison Fawkes terrified you.


	3. Incognito

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course he'd actually been to watch one of your performances.
> 
> Not that you'd really notice.

The venue was swollen and he couldn't hear very well. 

But he had to do it. He had to see you.

The thrumming notes of your music were winding up to match the climax of your performance. 

You twirled over the ice skillfully and as graceful as any prima ballerina. 

Jamison's headache continued to throb as he slowly took the steps cutting through the vast areas of seating. 

The bouquet of roses bounced in his arms and he took a moment to inspect them, eyes briefly flitting down to the assortment.

It seemed like enough. Two dozen? Bigger is always better. He turned his head to the side and barked out a shrill "kachooo!"

He wasn't used to such polleny-sweet smelling things. It made his sinuses tingle as opposed to his indelible stench of burnt hair and un-showered body. 

But he was doing this for you. He'd seen people do it for you all the time on the television back at home. 

At the end of a skater's performance, fans who managed to make it the edge of the rink waited with flowers, gifts, and toys—kisses too, occasionally. 

Roadhog, or Mako in this setting, sat in the audience. Since he wore a mask during each heist, his grizzled features and plain blue polo were just as unattested as every other nameless face in the crowd. 

Did he really think it was a good idea to even come along? Not really, no. But was observing every moment of this side of Junkrat intriguing? Yes, and he'd even sit in a cramped-as-fuck stadium seat with the leering eyes of cheesy-fingered kids dotted on him all the while. 

Love did...strange things to people. But was it love? Junkrat had only seen you once. What had made so much different than some other young, too-grown-up girl in a miniskirt? 

Maybe it was the fact that, when you lunged out from that high window, the passionate madness in your eyes nearly matched his.

Mako shook his head as Junkrat nearly lost footing with that peg leg of his down the railing-less slope. The distant jingle of the bells flopping around in the weirdo's wiry blue-white tufts slowly fell out of earshot.

The older junker thought dressing like a jester or clown or some freak was the best option of disguise Jamie really had—even though he attracted just as many stares as he would've just being his regular old self. 

Junkrat felt an ache in his chest cavity when you fell—badly. Your knees had buckled underneath you after an attempted quadruple axel. But you were younger then, and overly eager too.

It was second Grand Prix final, you'd won your first. You wanted to be fresher that year; you wanted to be the most memorable one, snatching first place again and breaking another record. 

But you didn't. The song ended and you were done for the season. People applauded as you picked yourself up—ego sore, bum sore. 

Jamison watched breathlessly, taking in the contours of your delicate features displayed up close on the immense holographic Jumbotron. 

Hot tears were falling from your eyes; teeth were clenching onto your tender lower lip. 

You began to skate off the ice to where your ballet instructor, Amelie Lacroix, stood waiting. Normally she'd have her arms open, ready to pull you into a reassuring hug. 

No, but that time she was pointing with a slender finger directing you back to the rink. 

Oh. You didn't get your roses. 

Smaller kids stood at the edge, tossing different types of flowers into the rink, smiling bashfully as you glided back over the pick them up. 

"Thank you," you said, shaking the small hands sticking out to you from the edge.

"Thanks so much," you repeated, shaking more. 

You approached the last.

"Than—,"

A man dressed up as a clown? White painted his sharp, thin features and high cheekbones. Black lipstick polished his wide lips. Two slashes of blue paint fell across his peculiar amber eyes. 

Part of you wanted to pass him and exit the rink at a brisk pace. You hated clowns, mimes, and creepy face paint in general. But he'd taken the initiative to—

You gasped softly at the massive amount of roses he had actually brought along. 

Out of the corner of your eye you could see that you and the strange man were being depicted on the Jumbotron for all to see.

A doting "awwww....," filled the audience. 

Junkrat's heart was pounding. He couldn't believe it. It was you—like, actually you. It wasn't like the dreams he had.

He could see how your (h/c) locks were damp with perspiration, how your cheeks were rubied with exhaustion...how you still smelled like flowers. 

"O-oi...G'day Miss (Y/N)," he started. Jamie's lanky arms began to tremble as he lay the thick bundle of roses into yours.

"I'm ya biggest fan 'ere,"

What if you suddenly recognized him? From that night? And would quickly hurl the roses back up into his face?

Would he suddenly feel the sting of the hard part of your hand connecting with the skin of his cheek? He knew he deserved it.

"Thanks," you said. 

His heart melted when you smiled--SMILED at him. You smiled at him and he felt fuckin' high. 

You reached up and placed a hand on his painted cheek and moved to do what you normally did when guys presented you with flowers after a performance. 

His hazel eyes blinked down at you hesitantly. He was....really tall.

The man dressed up as a jester leaned forward. 

You pressed your lips to his, fleetingly.


	4. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is it that you're preparing for? You yourself, are not quite sure yet. 
> 
> Anything, you suppose.

"Oi, respect for that lil' sheila—wherever she moi' be."

Junkrat raised the can of beer to his lips and nodded to the rumble of Roadhog's reply. 

Hana Song's big dark eyes and pink lipgloss shimmered on the beat-up monitor. The interviewer continued on with questions. 

It turns out that her home was blown-to-fucks by omnics too. Jamison just happened to respect her response to it all; she blew them to fucks right back with that big pink machine of hers. 

Jamison felt a dull ache in his heart at the familiarity of it all. D.va kinda reminded him of you—petite, smart, all lovely and beautiful and shit.

The generation right above his and your age group—the ones that ran Overwatch, had gone from normal people, children with normal childhoods, to warriors. 

One day they were driving past their daycare center and the next they were driving past the remnants of it on their way toward evacuating the city. They had to get used it, a traumatic event that tainted most of them.

But you and Hana were different in a sense. You were their children. Unlike them, you were used to it. Your generation was the type to learn archery at the age of five instead of watercolors. Introduction to Calculus came in sixth grade and jogging two miles in gym was nothing. 

Junkrat was sort of like you in that respect. No, he didn't have two wealthy parents, or any for that matter. But he had his own skill set, engineering explosives that were actually quite complex behind their chorded appearance. 

He traveled the world in style—a maniac's sort of style, blowing up what he damn-well pleased simply because he could. He hated people in the other regions, walking up the street, smiling in their name-brand clothes and spotless shoes with omnics running around all the while; they were the same bots who reduced Australia to a third-world country. 

And then, for the rest of the world to turn their noses up at their misfortune? Junkrat grinned toothily as he recalled blowing up some rotten CEO's couple billion dollar skyscraper.

They deserved it, didn't they? His smile suddenly caved when you flashed to the forefront of his mind, thick eyelashes wet with tears, body sprawled helplessly upon a sidewalk covered with ash. 

Did you deserve it though? 

~~

"(Y/N), h-hold up!"

But you couldn't hear them over the sickening "smack" your foot made when it connected with the boy's jaw. 

You'd finally unbalanced him. He lie on his back, stretched helplessly over the cold linoleum. A few of his buds flicked their cigs away and came shuffling up. 

They dragged him off, laid him against the cool concrete of the wall. He'd join rest of your victims in a few minutes, nursing at water bottles and holding bloodied towel to their broken noses and gashed foreheads. 

But that's what they get for their little conversations during mess and no doubt when they lie in bunks. 

"Girls cant fight. That's why there are hardly any drafted into the RAF,"

You cracked your knuckles again and settled down where you stood, stretched your cramped legs through your sweat pants.

"Oi..! Oh, (Y/N)," Lena sighed, jogging up to you.

"I said easy. 'Easy'!"

You shake your head and shrugged.

"Whoops. My foot slipped." 

You fall backward onto the floor, t-shirt riding up and exposing a bit of your flat stomach glistening with perspiration. 

"Bloody 'ell," Lena murmured. Heat fell across her cheeks. You were quite terrifying, sure. Her eyes lingered on your supple bosom a moment longer. 

But damn it all, you were still lovely all the same. Lena clasped onto one of your hands. 

"C'mon, up you go now." 

You stand with her help. 

The legendary Lena "Tracer" Oxton had been babysitting you all summer in your training program; other cadets too of course, but you, she knew your parents from the Overwatch days. 

Ever since it disbanded, and when she wasn't taking on vigilante work, Lena spent her time in many rigorous military training programs around the world, meeting and occasionally instructing the teens enrolled in them. 

"Anyway, there was something I was hoping you'd look into with me." 

You look at her, searching for the answer in those big brown eyes.  
You feel a shift in the air of the stuffy gym. 

Everyone's eyes have roamed up to hologram in the top corner of the room displaying the news. 

A protest in the streets of New York. A group of radicals, society would probably deem them. You squint to make out the words on their posters and shirts.

"Bring back Overwatch."


End file.
